


This One Time, In Medical School...

by Soulsteel



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, Femme Topping Mech, M/M, Medic Handplay, Multi, Other, Party Ambulance Ratchet, Public Sex, Size Difference, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tactile Overload, will update tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22506307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulsteel/pseuds/Soulsteel
Summary: In which Ratchet the medical student parties.  Extensively.  With multiple partners. Pretty much everywhere.  And in pretty much every position.
Relationships: Ratchet/Everyone, Ratchet/Pharma, Ratchet/Strika
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61





	1. An Absolute Blast

**Author's Note:**

> Though this definitely has cracky gilding, it is canon-supported. Party Ambulance is GO!

“Again.” Ratchet’s voice cracked through the Nemesis’ medbay like static electricity: short, sharp, and brittle.

“I’ve performed _organ transplants_! I hardly need a refresher on basic mesh welding!” Knock Out dropped the detached Vehicon limb and wheeled around to glare at the other medic. Frustration boiled up behind his red optics, then was violently forced down as he remembered where he stood in this particular pecking order.

“Your outer welding is neat and very tidy, but your inner work is sloppy.” Ratchet tutted audibly as he looked over the meshwork of the limb and the lazy weld lines crossing it.

“No one will see it! What’s the point of being neat?” Knock Out threw up his servos, plating flaring to vent pent-up heat.

Ratchet looked prim. “The patient will definitely feel it. If I’d welded a patient like that in medical school, at least one of my professors would have taken me out back and shot me.”

“Well _some of us_ didn’t finish med school on account of the city it was located in being fragging evacuated and then glassed! Sorry for not staying put to work on my doctoral defense in between bombing runs!” Knock Out stomped away from the medical berth and crossed his arms over his chest with more than a touch of petulance.

Ratchet gave Knock Out a supremely unimpressed look as he picked up the Vehicon limb and ran a sensitive medic’s digit along the weld lines. “You’ve had more than enough time to practice. This is just sad.”

Knock Out vibrated with rage for a moment, then spun and flounced to his office in the medbay. Before he finished his dramatic exit, he wheeled and viciously spat, “I bet you were an absolute _blast_ in medical school.”

Ratchet grunted noncommittally.

***

Second-year medical student Ratchet of Vaporex gasped as an immense spike plunged into his well-stretched valve, displacing a wave of transfluid and lubricant that he heard splattering into the large puddle already between his pedes. His servos scrabbled across the drinks table, making the half-empty bottles of high-grade wobble. He opened his intake to gulp the stale, engex-saturated air in the room through his vents, only to have a thick digit shoved into it. The bot above him groaned and ground their too-large jack right into his straining valve. Ratchet panted and pushed back, the sheer size of his partner reawakening sensors deadened by overstimulation. He heard a couple bots drunkenly cheering, and he responded with a cheeky wiggle of his hips that made the spike inside him throb. Party was still going, because the Party Ambulance was still conscious.

The first couple of thrusts were gentle, careful, considerate. Bot was used to their spike being too big for average valves. But Ratchet’s valve was anything but average, especially after the extensive “warm-up” it’d had. He rippled his calipers - all of them, including the extras he’d had installed.

A contralto moan and a large servo on his hip made him lick and suck the digit hooked into his intake. Oh, a femme. He was going to make this _good_ for her. He bit down on her digit, just enough to cause a touch of pain, and purred, “I’m not going to break. _Frag me_.”

She responded with a laugh and a brutal thrust that not only hammered his ceiling node, but actually left it spitting nonsense along his sensors, hot and sharp. Ratchet screamed like a mech having his seals taken for the first time, servos clawing along cheap aluminum table. She yanked her digit out of his intake with another laugh. “You think you can handle me? Get what you wished for, little medic.” Ratchet barely had time to try and place her accent before she pressed him down hard against the table and proceeded to absolutely destroy him in the best possible way.

Her spike slammed deep into him, hard and fast and bruising, forcing a squeal out of his sirens. The absolutely massive length felt like it’d split him in half even with his mods. He was dimly aware of encouraging cheers, bots shouting that they’d give him a drink after, bots calling next in line. All he could focus on was the heavy servo on the back of his neck holding him down and the huge cord fragging into his valve and setting off every sensor he had and a few he was pretty sure he didn’t. He tried to squeeze against her, but his calipers weren’t responding - too much stimulation too fast. Hopefully she’d forgive him for letting her do all the work. His plating flared wide, struggling to vent between being utterly filled with thick, rigid, wonderful spike. He whined like a pleasurebot in a ‘face holo, and she snickered at him.

Well that wasn’t going to do. He had a reputation to uphold. 

Struggling to bludgeon some of his processor power away from “spike good, don’t stop” was a battle, but he managed it. He needed at least a few of his wits about him for this trick. He angled his hips slightly, taking her a little deeper, and carefully engaged his t-cog for just a fraction of a nanoklik. His internals rearranged slightly, then snapped back, sending both vibration and a pulse of near-crushing pressure through his valve right as she thrust in. And then he did it again. And again. The noise she made was delicious, and when she growled out something about chaining him to her berth he allowed himself a smug curl of his lipplates.

She suddenly drew up short, a few brief, ragged thrusts smashing into him. Ratchet engaged his t-cog one last time, a miniscule fraction longer that before. She bent over him, digging her digits into his hip fairings hard enough to leave dents. He was close, so close... 

And then her overload hit with a roar. Liquid heat - the pressure of it, the swelling of her spike as she released - filled him in an unrelenting torrent, the surge of charge and transfluid bringing him to his tenth and definitely best overload of the night. Someone whooped loudly, cheering both of them on. Somewhere between his optics whiting out with charge and the moment he managed to get them back online, a cube of coolant appeared in front of him. With a straw, so he didn’t have to actually move. Primus bless whoever’d done that.

Another lovely contralto groan and she pulled out. He could feel her fresh transfluid spilling down his stained thighs, and it coaxed a soft, satisfied groan out of him. He heard a thud as she collapsed onto something - floor, couch, wall, berth, who knew? Hopefully not on someone. Lifting his helm to check seemed like an impossible feat at the moment. He flicked out his glossa and pulled the end of the straw into his intake, sucking gratefully. If he found out who put this cube in front of him, he’d suck something else gratefully before the night was over. But for now, the only thing he could do was desperately vent to cool his overheated frame and chug coolant.

After what seemed like an eternity occupied solely by monitoring his temperature reading in his HUD and waiting for his coolant levels to get back to normal, he pushed himself off the table, looked over his shoulder, slapped his aft, and shouted, “Next patient!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be an ongoing series in no particular chronological order, except that all of it happens while Ratchet is in med school or residency. It will be largely porn with occasional touches of plot and/or feels. It will be updated whenever I decide Ratchet needs a solid fragging (so likely often). Kink will be involved. Casual sex and polyamory will DEFINITELY be involved.  
> I'm open to suggestions if you'd like a particular kink or partner to pop up, but I do do research to make sure the partner fits at least vaguely to the Aligned continuity (though I will happily fill in gaps in Aligned with other continuities (see above)). This unfortunately means Dratchet's going to be a little weird, because Drift shows up in Robots in Disguise (2015) with an entirely different personality, look, backstory, and philosophy to his IDW counterpart. Whatever. Ratchet's gonna wreck it.


	2. Calibration Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many things come into alignment.

“Alignment’s done,” Ratchet murmured, pulling the whisper-fine potentiometer out of Pharma’s smallest digit. He carefully returned it to his toolkit on the battered aluminum table. “What’s your sensitivity at?”

“Seventy-three-point-eight.” Pharma’s wings trembled lightly, but he flexed his digits, clearly reveling in the smoothness of the motion. He was practically purring.

Ratchet ghosted his digit-tips lightly across Pharma’s when the Seeker finally flattened his digits out, savoring the choked moan he got, and slid the first calibration filament under the plating of his palm. “You’re going to have to work up to a hundred. I’m not spending six joors calibrating your sensors in batches.”

Pharma bared his dentae, fangs flashing and wings bouncing in the light streaming in from their dorm room’s single window. Ratchet traced their movements with his optics. “It’d be easier if you didn’t tease me when you did it.”

Ratchet smirked at his roommate, that enticing curl of his lipplates that always got Pharma riled up. “You pout when I don’t. Besides, I need an alignment and calibration too; I’ve got a practical exam coming up. You’ll get your chance for payback.” His servos twitched slightly at the thought.

“It would serve you right if I made you go find someone else to do it.” Pharma looked away, blue optics smouldering. His wings bounced perkily, though, signaling availability and interest. Pharma didn’t know Ratchet’d been studying Vosian wing-cant. Fragger wanted to play like the grounder was stupid, he could eat what came next.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that…” Ratchet began very slowly sliding the calibration filament out of Pharma’s servo, making sure to brush every major sensor cluster on the way. Pharma jolted, chasing the filament with his servo almost involuntarily.

“No! I’ll do it. You know no one else can calibrate your servos as well as I can, and I’d hate to see you handicapped by some lead-fisted amateur.” Pharma’s wings fluttered, then hiked high. Sexual interest and pride. Ratchet chuckled and slipped the filament back in. 

“Sensitivity up. Come on, Pharma, neither of us have all solar cycle.” Pharma groaned and shivered, and the calibrator unit sitting on the table beeped cheerily as it recorded more sensors coming online. 

“Eighty.” 

Ratchet rumbled his engine encouragingly and fed another filament into the back of Pharma’s servo, making sure his digits caressed the thin metal lightly. Pharma bit his lipplates, one fang peeking out enticingly. Ratchet leaned forward to capture his intake, glossa tracing along denta sharp enough to draw energon. Pharma responded eagerly, usually cutting glossa tangled in Ratchet’s and fighting for dominance. Ratchet swallowed Pharma’s moans as he rubbed his digits in small, slow circles across the back of the Seeker medic’s servo. Pharma’s field flared slightly, then pulled back into practiced, professional tightness.

Ratchet slipped his lubricant-wet lipplates away, kissing along Pharma’s faceplates in a slow path to his jawline. “Eighty-five. You can do it.”

Pharma groaned breathlessly, tilting his helm so Ratchet had ready access to the slim, lovely cables in his neck. The calibrator on the table chirped. “Eighty-five.”

Ratchet fed a calibration filament into Pharma’s opposable digit, laughing softly against Pharma’s jaw as the Seeker whimpered and writhed in his seat. He wiggled the calibration filament lightly, and Pharma’s soft, wordless pleas sharpened into a cry of pure pleasure. The Seeker’s wings fluttered frantically before suddenly pressing flat to his shoulder fairings. Ratchet swallowed hard, burying his faceplates in Pharma’s curved neck. He knew what that particular display meant even without his studies.

_Mount me._

And he wanted to. But instead, he bit down firmly on Pharma’s neck cables and growled, “Ninety.” Pharma whimpered, still squirming in his seat. His servo was perfectly still, but the rest of him bucked and wiggled. Ratchet bit down harder. “NOW.”

“N-ninety!” Pharma wailed, and Ratchet smelled the sharp tang of valve lubricant. The Seeker’s powerful fans spun up, and Ratchet lapped at the spot he’d bitten, picking up another filament and brushing it lightly across Pharma’s digits before slowly starting to worm it into the smallest one. He didn’t even need to look anymore, he’d done this so often. He turned up the sensitivity in his own servos, tracing lightly along Pharma’s digits and shivering as everything about Pharma fed into him - his fuel level, his energy usage, his sparkbeat, the subtle imperfections in the metal on his digits that wouldn’t even register to anyone not forged a medic.

“Frag, you’re gorgeous…” He couldn’t help stroking Pharma’s massively oversensitive servos, the extra energy tingling through them too enticing to bear. They were both at a level usually reserved for neurosurgery, and were starting to feedback off each other. Pharma’s panels opened with a soft snick, and the slick sounds as he ground his valve against the smooth metal of his chair made Ratchet want to vault the table and frag him. But that would mean letting go of Pharma’s servo, and he wasn’t prepared to do that. “Ninety-five. You can handle it.”

Pharma keened softly in protest, and Ratchet kissed his way back up to his intake. “Ratchet…” he managed faintly, the word more felt than heard as his lipplates moved against Ratchet’s. His field was uncontrolled now, lashing at Ratchet with the particular heat that only Seekers seemed able to generate, _lust-pain-ecstasy_ roiling the grounder medic’s circuits.

“Ninety-five,” Ratchet murmured softly, catching Pharma’s lower lipplates between his dentae, biting down hard and then licking the sore, bruised marks he’d left. 

Pharma let out a shuddering moan, and the calibrator chirped again. Ratchet picked up a fresh filament. He lightly brushed it across Pharma’s third digit, then slowly circled it around the seam it fed into, much the same as if he was introducing the mech to his spike. He slid it in, slow and careful - at ninety-five, the fine filament would feel massive, like it was made to touch every sensor on the way in. He twisted it, just a little, and Pharma let out a high-pitched, chirping cry. His wings were frantically slamming into his shoulder fairings over and over, demanding domination and completion. 

Ratchet slid his glossa along the edges of the Seeker’s open intake, listening to him pant. Their world was rapidly narrowing down to the touch of their servos against each other, soft brushes, barely-there petting. Each touch felt like it lanced past his processor and went straight into his spark, filling him brimful with pure sensation. Pharma was still whimpering and his valve was making soft, wet, welcoming noises, but at this point both of their servos were more sensitive than their arrays would ever be. “Ready for the next one?”

It took Pharma three tries to initiate his vocalizer, and it was a strained rasp when words finally emerged. “Don’t coddle me. I can take whatever you can dish out.”

“Is that so?” Ratchet picked up the second-to-last filament with digits that drowned in sensation at the simple movement. He stroked its tip along Pharma’s longest digit, teasing him. Just the very tip, letting its fine point and miniscule current activate a storm of sensation in each individual sensor it touched. The faint pressure of contact travelled through the filament, and Ratchet’s own servos thrilled with every subtle flex of the thin wire. He could feel his fuel pump throbbing in his lines, and even that was almost too much. He could lose himself in this so easily, lipplates slowly brushing Pharma’s lovely neck as he tantalized him.

“Get ON with it!” 

Of course. Fragger never was the patient type except where surgery was concerned.

Ratchet frowned, leaning away from Pharma, and lined the filament up with the seam it was going to feed into. He waited just long enough for Pharma’s optics to go fiery, for his lipplates to pull back in frustration and expose his fangs.

He was artwork when he struggled. 

Ratchet locked optics with the Seeker and pushed the filament in with a quick thrust, sawing it back and forth, fragging him with it. Pharma screamed and his sensor feedback snapped into Ratchet’s servo, sparkling effervescently though his whole chassis. Ratchet worked the filament deeper, deeper, this one had to go the deepest. Pharma was rapidly approaching a volume where they’d get complaints from the neighbors, but Ratchet couldn’t bring himself to give a frag about it. When the filament finally slid all the way home, Pharma flopped back in his chair, near-sobbing with overstimulation and need.

“Shhh. Shhh. Almost done.” Ratchet picked up the last calibration filament, but paused. Pharma’s digits were quivering in the air, fanned out, too sensitive to bear touching the table right now. They almost beckoned to him. Ratchet’s glossa flicked out, slicking his lipplates with oral lubricant, and he lowered his head. The tip of Pharma’s index digit - the last one unwired - trembled before him, and he took it in his intake with the reverence of one being offered a drop of another’s innermost energon.

The long, low noise Pharma made was more than a moan, less than a scream, and Ratchet could listen to it for joors. He fluttered his glossa against oversensitive seams, along the thickly clustered sensors in the Seeker’s digit-tip. He felt a claw extend slightly from sheer neural load, and he pressed his glossa against that too, savoring the brutal sharpness Pharma so often kept hidden. He sucked ever so slightly, a gentle pressure change but enough to make Pharma’s spinal struts arch and incoherent noises spill from his vocalizer. He slid his intake slowly down, taking the long digit fully in his mouth, lipplates pressing lightly against the first knuckle. Pharma bucked his hips as though it were his spike being tasted instead of his digit, throwing his helm back as Ratchet curled his glossa around the digit’s length. An audible crackle of charge snapped across Pharma’s plating.

The rising sensor feedback made Ratchet’s lipplates numb and his glossa ache. He slipped the slick digit out of his intake, watching his oral lubricant glisten on it. He pushed the last calibration filament in immediately, not giving Pharma longer than a handful of nanokliks to recover. Smooth and well-lubricated, it slid home with only one sharp cry from Pharma. 

Ratchet looked up from where he bent over Pharma’s servo, hot blue optics meeting half-shuttered blue-white ones. “One hundred.” His voice was firm, commanding, the way he’d need to be in an operating theater. 

Pharma whined softly, noise almost lost in the screaming of his fans.

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “One hundred. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Pharma’s wings clapped themselves to his shoulder fairings one last time, and the calibrator let out the tone that meant all sensors in range were online. Ratchet reached over with a tingling, oversensitive servo, hovered a digit over the “Initiate” button...and leaned low to exvent lightly across Pharma’s servo.

Pharma screamed in overload, frame arching in a tight curve that reminded Ratchet exactly how flexible the Seeker was. The ambulance jabbed the calibrator button, and the short, sharp calibration pulse sent Pharma’s wails even higher. Pharma’s plating crackled with charge before he slumped like a broken marionette, frantic venting and pulsing waves of heat rolling off of him the only signs of life. Ratchet was venting hard himself - Primus, was Pharma beautiful when he was too overstimulated to argue.

The Seeker hung limply for a long few kliks before stirring, lifting his helm slowly and flicking his glossa along the denta-marks Ratchet had left in his lipplates. His wings perked up slightly from their slack posture, fanning ever so slowly. 

“You fragger, you did that on purpose.” It would have been more effective if Pharma’s tone had been remotely accusatory, if he hadn’t been sitting in a pool of his own slick, if he’d at least managed to straighten first. Ratchet simply raised an eyebrow.

“Of course I did. Now give me your other servo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medic handplay is underrated.

**Author's Note:**

> This will be an ongoing series in no particular chronological order, except that all of it happens while Ratchet is in med school or residency. It will be largely porn with occasional touches of plot and/or feels. It will be updated whenever I decide Ratchet needs a solid fragging (so likely often). Kink will be involved. Casual sex and polyamory will DEFINITELY be involved.
> 
> I'm open to suggestions if you'd like a particular kink or partner to pop up, but I do do research to make sure the partner fits at least vaguely to the Aligned continuity (though I will happily fill in gaps in Aligned with other continuities (see above)). This unfortunately means Dratchet's going to be a little weird, because Drift shows up in Robots in Disguise (2015) with an entirely different personality, look, backstory, and philosophy to his IDW counterpart. Whatever. Ratchet's gonna wreck it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Calibration Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27279157) by [carboncopies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carboncopies/pseuds/carboncopies)




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